Shadow of Teldrassil
by TheWabbajackX
Summary: (BFA 8.2.5) It is a strenuous time for the kaldorei, especially for one in particular. A life dedicated to peace between two factions now brought to this, angry and lacking a future. Tortured by his present, he seeks those of his past to help offer insight.


**Author's Note: This story takes place after 8.2.5 but before 8.3. This fanfic is based on my roleplay character, Lavernius Jur on Moon Guard. He's got a lot of backstory behind him, not all of which is explained in this one-shot. So if you'd like to learn a bit more about him instead of waiting on my lazy ass to write the backstory I should've a long time ago, head to the MoonGuard wiki and look him up.  
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The shadow of Teldrassil. It hung over the secluded and scarred landscape of Darkshore, the shadow it cast darker than the eternal night around them. It had taken many great trials and tribulations to get to this point. To reclaim their home. But at long last, the Horde had been cast out of what remained of their precious Ashenvale forests.

"Victory is ours this night!"

The matriarch called out over the crowd, perched on the rocky alcove as she stared at their home. Their former home, silhouetted against the sickened palms. The whole land was aching. Even if she wasn't a druid, she could sense it. Though the plague and contaminants left by Sylvanas' forces could be eventually expunged, the death of a world tree is not so easily healed. She would need to be strong in order to endure it.

"Elune has given us the power to save ourselves."

Hundreds of soldiers and civilians looked up at her. They all looked how she felt. Tired, weary, lost, shouldering the vengeance that burned within. Though more haggard than normal, she still kept her warrior-priestly visage. The people needed to have faith in their high priestess. Shandris Feathermoon gripped her bow worriedly, with Jarod Shadowsong leaning against his greatsword. Maiev Shadowsong wrung the grip of her mighty glaive, fingers still itching for battle. Other allies had amassed to aid them, those who had fought and sacrificed equally to help them obtain their home back. Genn Greymane alongside his wife Mia and their daughter Tess. Celestine of the Harvest standing among Lorna Crowley. The Gilneans had viewed Teldrassil just as much a home as the kaldorei did. After the Forsaken had sieged their city, they had been the first to take the worgen in. Help them calm their bestial nature and offer a place to heal, grow stronger, and eventually take back their home. Now, they both had nowhere to reside.

Her husband. Malfurion Stormrage, standing at the front. Through thick and thin had he stuck by her side, helping temper her rage with his wisdom. They had always brought forth the better in one another. She could never forget that horrifying sight of Saurfang's axe impaled in his back. The priest thanked Elune that the warchief had been foolish enough to trust the orc instead of finishing the job herself. Odd, as Sylvanas was much more pragmatic than that. But Tyrande Whisperwind had learned to count her blessings, even with her shaken faith in Elune. So many questions racked the woman's mind.

Why had the dead been forsaken by her? And the living too? But if they had been abandoned by Mother Moon, why had she been blessed to wield her power as the Night Warrior?

But her wandering mind had to wait. Her people needed her now. Focus and believe in their inner strength.

"The Horde burned our forests thinking to kill our hope. They died for that folly. For our hope resides not in the trees, but in our bonds to each other!"

To the sky did he raise her tempered glaive, cleansed of the filth and stink that resided in the Horde's blood. Be it orc, Forsaken, or elf. It was all the same. They had made their choice to bow their head and lick the boots of the Banshee Queen. So they would taste her blade all the same.

"We… are… Kaldorei!"

Thunderous applause bellowed and echoed across the forests. Their pride sung through nature and seemed to revitalize the flowers. But it would be a long road. A very long road to recovery. They would rebuild Darkshore and heal it proper. But they could not live here. Teldrassil could never be replaced. Their only comfort was Nordrassil itself. It had stood against Archimonde and Ragnaros, as had they. It would be their home while her sentinels coved the world for Sylvanas. The son of Wrynn could parlay with a Horde that had learned nothing all day if he wished.

In time did the cheers die down, and they set to work rebuilding what had been lost. Combing the lands for any Horde stragglers. There was so much to do, the high priestess didn't even know where to begin. But they had somewhere to rally, somewhere to strike from in this lonely land. Bashal'Aran was a humble little hovel that had grown much in the constant skirmishes within Darkshore. Built on the backs and over the bones of the Horde dogs and their resurrected comrades. Delaryn Summermoon, Sira Moonwarden. Tyrande had known the warchief to be depraved, but the world had always shown her new lows people could stoop to.

They were all hurting from the disgrace inflicted upon them. The betrayal, the shame, and sacrilege, the slaughter, the yearning, the struggle. They needed each other now more than ever. Some, more than others.

The high priestess strode silently over the muted green foothills, her lightless eyes surveying all before her. While her husband led the druids in healing the land and her commanders patrolled the wastes, she could now be left to her own devices. Tyrande had found herself doing this more and more. Escaping from the others to be in solace, even from her husband. Not that she didn't love him anymore, far from it. But her shaking faith in Elune made her feel so isolated. All her life, she had been in promise to her goddess. Even choosing to enact her will over saving her own husband during the Legion invasion two years ago. A choice she prayed she would never have to make again.

_Why is this happening?_ she often asked herself. Only Shandris knew of her frustrations and faltering faith. If Malfurion ever found out, he'd be devastated.

Like her, there was another with a crisis of faith. And he no doubt felt the loneliest here.

Tyrande perched herself against a tree and peered through the bushes. Her sentinel training had made her a keen tracker. The druid had a unique scent to him, something that no one else possessed. As expected, there he was in the quiet isolation of the beachfront. Even the tides seemed to have grown silent beneath the fallen World Tree. He stood in silence, his polearm planted in the sand.

He had stood out in the crowd more than anyone. Not just because of their history. His stance, his walk, his choice of dress. It was impossible not to miss him. He had been an unexpected ally of the kaldorei people, even before Teldrassil had burned. The druid had been among the first to jump into action and defend their lands. Lands he had been banished from thousands of years ago. Yet there he had been without a moment's hesitation. Even if he had lacked the proper paperwork from the Alliance, he still would've been there at the risk of death. For what he had stood for and wore, many would call him foolish. And there were those that still harbored resentment for his transgressions. But some part of her had never doubted his honor. His courage.

The former thero'shan of Malfurion Stormrage. Exile of the kaldorei people. And ambassador between the Alliance and Horde, Lavernius Jur.

"Exile…"

Slowly did she emerge from the bushes, with Jur turning to meet her. His choice of armor was much different than anyone else's. Tanned leather hide, an asymmetrical gauntlet with a chain wrapped around his right forearm that was attached to the end of his polearm. Furred druidic shoulderpads and a macabre looking wooden mask of Pandaria make, with neon green feathers hanging off the back. Though most notably – and controversially – of all was his flagcloak. An old and tattered Alliance and Horde cloak stitched together down the middle, to represent unity. It had never been popular since his decision to don it about a decade ago. And way less popular now.

"Tyrande…" Jur said lowly, voice muffled somewhat by the mask. Its soulless expression and the way it stared back at her. It was a bit unnerving, she had to admit. A far cry from the young man she knew behind the mask.

"Forgive my intrusion," she stated. He had taken a step away and leaned back somewhat, hesitation to be in her vicinity. The high priestess couldn't blame him for his uneasy stance. Their relationship had been tenuous longer than it had been comforting. "Would you mind if I join you?" Jur's head lurched back an inch, cocking to the side curiously as he studied her. Even as a child, he had always possessed such expressive body language. One of the many things that made him so unique and memorable.

"…Sure." She nodded with a grateful smile before striding over to him. Even from beneath the mask, she could tell his eyes never left her. The priest took a seat on the downed log that had washed onto the beach. Jur merely stared down at her, hand gripping the hilt of his polearm. Feeling its firmness in his palm made him feel stable, comfortable. How ironic. A man of peace looking to a weapon for comfort. Though Jur bore no such amusement from the fact. It only caused his heart to sink further.

"Join me. Please?" Jur was thankful the mask hid his expression, as he pursed his lips apprehensively from the look she gave him. It was the calm expression of a curious mother. And it pained him to see. Pained, vexed, and confused him. His feelings on Tyrande had always been in flux as he aged. And they always fought to paint a cohesive picture of her in his mind.

"Fine," he stated simply before slinging his weapon over his back. Reluctantly did the druid join her on the log, clasping his hands nervously. And he made sure to look at anything but her. The eclipse, the ruins of Teldrassil, the shoreline, the treeline. Anything to keep his mind wandering. "It's strange coming back here."

"Indeed." It was hard sometimes for her to even believe this was Darkshore. So much had changed. And so much was wrong. "It will take time. But Malfurion believes we can cleanse the land. You sense it, don't you? The pain of nature."

How could he not? Even with his connection to the Dream lacking the same strength as Malfurion's, even the deaf could hear its anguish. He felt so tired beneath it.

"We can't heal everything." The druid's head dropped down to look into the sand. His neck felt so heavy. Having to look up and see the dead tree felt so momentous an effort. All it did was sink a proverbial knife into his heart. "Teldrassil will always be lost."

"Not every wound can be healed." She gently placed a hand onto his forearm. The druid twitched ever so slightly beneath her touch. Others would take comfort in the warmth her light provided. But it still stung to him. Tyrande hooked a hand beneath the curve of his mask, hearing him inhale sharply. Slowly did she begin to lift it. She wanted to see him proper. The woman removed the macabre piece of wood and sat it in the grass. Staring back at her was a young kaldorei man, with rich purple skin, comically long ears, and windswept shaggy green hair. It had been years since she had been this close to him. The boy looked as though he had barely aged a day. His emerald prison had left him remarkably preserved. But she had noticed one thing had changed. The circles. Dark circles hung under his eyes, contrasting his soft face. "You look so tired."

"I _am_ tired. I'm always tired." That just felt like the norm nowadays. Tired. Just so tired. It had only gotten worse since the Legion's return. No matter what, he seemed he could never find stability in his life. Varian, Vol'jin, Ysera, Cordana, and Tirion's deaths. The burning of Teldrassil, the betrayal of the Horde, nearly being lynched in the street. The strife with his lover Sharahleah Duskleaf, their fight, their pushing one another way, and her sudden departure on the night they had wanted to start over. Duty called. He was proud that she was serving the Alliance in the fight against Sylvanas. But she had been gone for so long. No letters back, none of his contacts in the military providing info on her whereabouts. If she was even alive. And he couldn't sense her through the Dream either. As though she had shut him out.

"You need to rest," she advised with her motherly tone. He closed his eyes and took in the silence. The solace of them in nature.

"I'll rest when I'm dead," he dismissed. To which, Tyrande sighed and closed her eyes, shaking her head.

"So stubborn. Just like Malfurion." Jur couldn't help but scoff in amusement at her comment. She was one to talk. "You push yourself too hard. You're no Wild God, you know." Jur merely blew air through his lips and glanced down, too tired to hold his neck aloft to face her.

"…How did it come to this?" he muttered. "Where did everything just… go south?" Tyrande closed her eyes and nodded painfully. His questions were not at all unfamiliar to her. Malfurion could offer no satisfactory answers so she knew she was ill-equipped to ease his pain.

"It's not your fault. I know you think it is." Her hand descended to take hold of his flagcloak, squeezing it in her grip. It was such a strange thing, unlike anything she had ever seen. Like something out of a book for children. A sort of superhero cape latched under his left shoulderpad. But it had such a profound effect on people. Hope, inspiration, belief, fear, anger, betrayal, zeal, confusion, ire, courage. Everybody had something to say on it. And him. He had lived a long life.

"Why isn't it?" He stared down limply at the same garment. Something he had once brandished as an ideal, something to inspire others and keep him going forward. Now it only served as a cruel reminder of his failures. The Battle for Mount Hyjal seemed like a lifetime ago now. The bravery of Thrall and his journey to find a new life for the Horde, joined by the endeavors of Saurfang, Cairne Bloodhoof, and Vol'jin. In the early days, it seemed as though the Horde was worth saving, even after Garrosh. The plight of the Forsaken caused by Arthas, the struggling of the blood elves and their mistreatment under Garithos. But their marching to Sylvanas' drum had squandered all that. They only knew servitude, not personal responsibility. Or even morality. "I was a fool to think they could change. What was I thinking?"

"It's never a bad thing to believe in the good of others," Tyrande stated. She rested a hand against his head before lowering it to meet her forehead. "The Horde just wasn't worthy of you."

"I feel… so lost. So alone. I… I don't know what to do anymore." For the first time in years, he had nowhere else to go. No goal in life. He had dedicated himself solely to bringing peace between the two factions. Now there was nothing to fight for. Once N'Zoth and Sylvanas had been ended, what else was there? He had no other purpose. This was all he had. And now, it was gone.

"You cannot lose faith. In these times, it's all we have." Hypocrite, she was. Her heart squirmed with anger and confusion on where Elune had been. Why empower her with her rage after Teldrassil and thousands had been lost? Why not before, to protect it? "You're strong. You've always been."

"Not strong enough," he dismissed. Jur had always sought her approval. As the closest thing to a mother he had ever known, how could he not? But not now. It stung. He didn't deserve it. His life had been a lie. "I tried to help make Azeroth a better place. I really did…" His voice shook, the druid feeling his strength waver. "And I failed."

"No." She shook her head and held his head against hers. "You did all you could. You worked tirelessly for something you truly believed in."

"It wasn't worth it." Her heart sank. But would she have been happier if he – despite everything – still tried to parlay for peace with the Horde? After they spat on what he believed in and everything they did to her people? No. No doubt she'd be livid at his foolishness and ignorance. "I failed again."

"No. Not again." This was nothing like the War of the Ancients. A reckless youth trying to prove himself Malfurion's equal, only to get thousands killed. This was not the same. He was not the same. His mistake had been from foolishness, not malice. Not like the Horde. Her gaze drifted back down to that strange garment. That iconic flagcloak. "Why do you wear it still? Why not get rid of it?"

"What for?" he huffed. "It won't change anything."

"You don't have to remain shackled to something you don't believe in." He closed his eyes and shook his head. She wouldn't understand. But he nonetheless felt compelled to explain himself.

"Because it would feel like I was trying to hide from who I was." He pursed his lips and gulped down his turmoil, before allowing himself to loosen through a sigh. "I don't wanna hide from my past. If I keep it there, then I remember what it stands for. And that way, I won't make the same mistakes again."

"There are better ways," Tyrande attempted to reason.

"This is mine." The night warrior said nothing. Instead, she closed her eyes and delivered a nod of acceptance. It would do no good to argue with him. Despite everything, he still remained as stubborn as ever. For good or for ill, she wasn't quite sure. But if this helped in in whatever strange way he believed it to, who was she to argue? She couldn't control him, just as Malfurion couldn't control her.

"I'm…" A heavy sigh founds its way out from her chest. Her pride made it difficult to admit this to an exile, even if she had technically helped raise him. "…thankful for your aid. Despite our animosity, you came to the aid of the kaldorei people. And to the Gilneans as well. There are those among us who don't appreciate what you've done. I cannot convince them to set aside the pain of your betrayal of old…. but I am thankful." Jur glanced aside glumly. It felt so backhanded, for her to still be distant on account of his exile while also attempting to calm him. Another one of many reasons she frustrated him.

"…I couldn't leave you guys high and dry," he confessed. "Innocent people needed my help. That's my job." It had taken years for his fear and anger at the kaldorei people to subside. Not forgiveness necessarily but rather acceptance. He had lashed out at people simply for being kaldorei, all because they were part of a culture that exiled him and would have him dead if he didn't have the proper paperwork to operate in their lands. That type of pain ran deep into the cockles of his heart. But it stung less now that they shared a common goal. "It was the right thing to do." A warm smile emerged onto her face. Jur averted her gaze sheepishly, feeling a slight heat build upon his cheeks.

"In spite of everything, I've always admired your bravery. You have a good heart, Lavernius." The heat amassing on his face grew in intensity. He didn't like being addressed by his first name, preferring his old. Only his lover, Tyrande, or Malfurion ever addressed him as such. The latter two were the reason he preferred not to go by that name. But hearing her say it after ten thousand years. It both vexed and touched him.

"Do you still believe?" She blinked, feeling her blood run cold. Tyrande pursed her lips and contemplated his words carefully.

"In what?"

"In anything." Now the woman felt cornered. Not since Malfurion's near-death had she felt this vulnerable. Could he see right through her?

"I believe… in the kaldorei. I believe that we need to end Sylvanas before we can properly heal. That our unity makes us stronger. We cannot lose hope. For if we do, then the Banshee Queen has won, despite us still living." Jur closed his eyes and grimaced at that name.

He could never believe there had been a time where he felt sorry for her. A high elf having been forced to watch Quel'thalas burn to the ground, resurrected against her will into undeath. But the time of the honorable Ranger-General had died long ago. She was no better than the very Lich King she had sworn to destroy. And he would be there personally to end her, no matter how far he had to go.

"There's still a job to do. And yours isn't done yet. The goddess watches over you." Jur scoffed once more, huffing through his nose.

"The goddess has never blessed me with anything." Tyrande held her tongue and avoided her nature instinct to lecture him for his insolence. After all, she too had a wavering faith in Elune.

"Regardless, there is still much to do. If you seek direction, then seek your blade at the Banshee Queen. And N'Zoth. You may doubt your strength, but that is what they prey upon." To fight. Was that really his lot in life? He had always fought to protect Azeroth from those who would seek harm against it. The Scourge, the Legion, the Old Gods, Garrosh, Sylvanas, the Iron Horde, the Scarlet Crusade, Hakkar the Soulflayer. It wasn't that foreign a feeling to him. But the Blood War and the third invasion had taken a toll on him. Is this what he was bound to? To just fight forever? Never to help rebuild, heal, or lay down his weapon? Did it ever stop?

"I'm so tired…"

"I know. I am as well. You must rest, but do not sleep without something to wake up for. You need something to rise for." To kill Sylvanas, to avenge her people. That was what kept her going. To fight and protect what she still hadn't lost. "We still have a long fight ahead of us. And… I'm not sure how reliable the Alliance will be in our fight. But you… I _do_ have faith in."

Words Jur never thought he'd hear. His crimes during the War of the Ancients and his subsequent exile had severed a bond between them. For years had he harbored resentment towards her for, despite how he agreed that he needed to be punished. This felt… strange. Like something in him felt alleviated. Relieved to be wanted, especially by her.

"Your exile is something we cannot change. But the kaldorei will take what allies we can in our fight." His heart faltered a bit. The druid knew there was no way they'd ever rescind his exile. If they did, he wasn't even sure he could agree to it anyway. A lot of people were killed because of his foolishness, after all. Thousands of good soldiers lost to demons and Deathwing's flame all because of a forged signature and a youth's pride. But even so, there had been that small sliver of hope he could come back. Have a place among the kaldorei. To finally be allowed to call them "his people" again. Though, he'd never feel like he belonged. Or had a home among them.

"…I need time. I need… to rest. To get my head straight. I'm… a mess."

"Of course." She merely closed her eyes and nodded, a pleasant smile on his face. "We will spend time recovering here before we begin to rally at Nordrassil. I hope to see you join our fight." Tyrande rose to her feet and stared out over the horizon. One day – hopefully – they could look across the land and feel hope and tranquility rather than pain. "I must rejoin my people."

"Of course. I need to get going as well." It was too painful to be here, even if he had no connection to Teldrassil. But seeing such a monolith dead and hearing the land weep in anguish. It was too much. As he reached for his mask, he was interrupted by her embrace. Tyrande held him in place, with Jur unsure of what to do. A thousand emotions ran through his mind at once before he eventually reciprocated the hug. She felt so soft and warm despite her warrior appearance. Another part of what made her so special. And conflicting.

"Safe journey, Exile…"

"…Yes, ma'am." The two broke their embrace, and the priestess slipped back into the underbrush, the white of her armor vanishing from sight. And like an angel's kiss, she was gone. Jur was left alone again to his thoughts, something he had come quite accustomed to. Donning his mask, the druid trudged along through the sleepy Darkshore wilderness to greener pastures.

Tyrande had given him a lot to think about. It was true. The fight was not over yet, and the Alliance putting its faith in the Horde over the pain of the kaldorei did not sit well with him. There would be great tension in the coming years. And he wasn't sure which side he wished to take. Whether to keep the Alliance together or watch it divide. Watching his decade long commitment to bridging the two factions together crumble before his very eyes had soured him to say the least. He felt ready to just give up on them entirely. But something still held his back. After years of tireless and thankless service, could he really just quit? Just give up? He wasn't a quitter. But there was a difference between commitment and insanity. The druid definitely felt like he was insane, no doubt about that. There were others that still wanted his input. Jaina Proudmoore had been fervently attempting to persuade him to help with the negotiations for the armistice at Anduin Wrynn's behest. At most, he would write a couple letters to help with structuring. But that was the extent of it. He refused to do more, even with the knowledge of Calia Menethil potentially taking leadership of the Forsaken in Sylvanas' absence. Things could really change in the Horde. But one outcast leader could not change the hearts of others who had made the same mistakes before with no growth.

Fighting. More fighting. More war. Against Sylvanas, against N'Zoth. It never seemed like it would end. All he wanted was to rest. To just stop. Get what he desired instead of endlessly self-sacrificing for the greater good. His whole life had lived in service of others, something he was quite proud of. Altruism was seen as one of his greatest strengths. But he had grown so tired, so frustrated, lonely, and depressed. Now, he felt selfish for wanting something a bit more out of the world. He understood Sharahleah's frustrations completely. How great a fool did he look in her eyes now after all this. He didn't want to fight anymore, but in good conscience he couldn't just stop. Not while Azeroth was in danger. But what about her? She was important too. The most important thing in his life now. His first true love. When she came back, then he could finally start over proper. They could finally have a chance to leave this all behind and do what they wanted. Rather than live of life of servitude for others.

Tyrande. No matter what, her presence still had that profound and shameful effect on him. All his life, he had seen her as a mother to him. It wasn't unreasonable to, being an orphan and all. A kind and caring priest in service to Elune, helping teach and school him alongside Malfurion. They had provided the best they could with no child-rearing experience. But things twisted. Once he entered his teenage years, he started to see her in a different light. Not as a mother but as a woman. And the shame and humiliation that gripped him afterwards crushed him. Lusting after a woman he deemed his own mother while trying to rationalize that she wasn't really a parent. And seeing the relationship blossom between her and Malfurion only made it worse. For years did he suppress his sexual urges, eventually exploding when he became intimate with Sharahleah. And finally, resentment. Her and Malfurion choosing to exile him was an immense sting. It broke his heart and ran betrayal deep within his soul, despite that he knew deep down they were right to punish him. They weren't his real parents, and they never would be. So why did it sting so bad? What sense did it make to harbor a grudge against them?

These feelings had grown easier with age. The lust, the anger, the heartache, the comfort. He was just too tired to feel swept up anymore. Tired and done with the woes of the world and its damn Alliance and Horde. Plus, he had Sharah now. She was his rock, his anchor. All that he had left. And he had to make things right when she returned.

For without her, what else was there?

* * *

It felt strange to be out of the shadow of the eclipse. The eternal night only seemed to permeate over Darkshore. Jur had no explanation for how it worked. Elune worked in mysterious ways. The old adage the priesthood would no doubt rattle off. He wasn't even sure why he was walking in the first place. There was a perfectly functional hearthstone sitting in his satchel tuned to Boralus. Eventually would he get around to using it. But for right now, he just wanted to stretch his legs. Walk around a little and put Darkshore behind him.

He had wandered deep into Ashenvale Forest. The kaldorei had always been quiet, but the forest felt eerily silent now. They had no true outposts here anymore, and the Horde had withdrawn their forces after negotiations for the armistice had begun. Though this land was kaldorei land, it didn't really seem to belong to anyone anymore. As he continued to wander, the hills began to roll with more greenery. More than what he suspected, given the Forsaken and orcs had a heyday torching and polluting the place. Jur narrowed his eyes searchingly at the grass, taking notice of its emerald hue. It didn't seem natural. Only one place he knew had grass this lush and naturally occurring. The exile lowered his hand to touch it. A glimmering tingle ran through him as he ran his fingers through the blades of grass. No doubt in his mind now. He followed the peculiar trail through the trees until he came to a small clearing overlooking the sea. Being on a raised cliff face, the view of the water was impeccable as the stars twinkled off the reflection.

"Hail." In a circle was sitting none other than Malfurion. Even while seated, he was physically imposing. Easily did he dwarf Jur. A warm fatherly smile greeted the druid.

"…What are you doing out here?" he finally managed to ask.

"I needed to be away from Darkshore for a while," he confessed. "Though I still feel its cries, I had to excuse myself. Sometimes, you need to reside in silence by yourself." Very few had seen the more human side of Malfurion. As an archdruid – _the_ archdruid – he always had this larger-than-life visage about him. Almost otherworldly in his appearance and the air about him. "Oh, Teldrassil." A heavy sigh left the old kaldorei as the smile left his face. "My only solace is that Fandral didn't have to witness such events." Jur's lip curled up in irritation at the name.

Fandral Staghelm. One of Jur's teachers. He had been cruel and viewed him as nothing more than a nuisance while under his tutelage. Only seeking to humiliate and push him out – a mere child – so he could focus on bettering himself as a druid. The druid had hunted him down and trapped him in emeralds as punishment. Being allowed to go free was too good for Jur, his followers had taunted. Years of his life and freedom stolen from him. Then turned usurper of Malfurion, threatening to turn the Cenarion Circle against everything it was supposed to be. The ultimate cherry on it all was his betrayal of their people and defection to Ragnaros the Firelord, spawning the sacrilegious druids of the flame. Jur rarely took pleasure in killing, but bashing Staghelm's head in with a rock was like true heaven to him. He cared little for the shock and anger the other raiders had exhibited. Staghelm was a cruel man, a racist, and a traitor. The Emerald Dream had been his fault, after all.

All of which were things Malfurion knew. Yet – despite this – he still blamed himself for Staghelm's fall from grace. Another student of his that he had failed. His great shame.

"Tyrande says you plan to reconvene at Nordrassil after Darkshore is properly healed."

"Indeed," Malfurion answered. "There is still much to discuss, and we are only now just getting settled back into Kalimdor. We're not sure where Darnassus is to be rebuilt, if it is to be rebuilt at all. But the great World Tree is a start." Having to start over. It was never easy. That much, Jur could attest to personally. Jaina and the Alliance remnants digging him up by accident in that mine back in Kalimdor had proven to be his salvation. His second chance, the one he had begged for but had been denied. And he had worked so hard to become the ambassador and seen as a hero, even if he avoided calling himself such. Now it seemed he would have to start over again. But where? And how? Sharahleah would know. She had been his voice of reason as many times as he was hers.

His thoughts were interrupted by the soft chuckle Malfurion gave.

"What's so funny?" Jur asked. The archdruid merely shook his head with a smile.

"Fate has brought us together at Darkshore," he mused. "To fight alongside and protect nature as we did thousands of years ago against the Legion. You've grown much, in power and wisdom."

"I've had a lot of time," he dismissed, looking away sheepishly.

"Though our paths differ, you are a worthy ally to have. We are grateful for your aid in reclaiming Darkshore." Jur lingered in silence before shaking his head, waving a hand dismissively. Hot air blew through his lips as he struggled to form a retort. It was usually easier to downplay gratitude than this. Just doing his job or aiming to please. He and Tyrande just made it so much harder to though. Jur would rather die before admitting it, but he still desperately sought their approval. Some small sliver of him still viewed him as the parents he never had. Even if he shouldn't. "…I'm proud of you."

The exile nearly choked as he swallowed the knot down that formed in his throat. Those words. They were like knives. What he was wanted to hear and what also tortured him, given their relationship. It wasn't fair. To get what he wanted only to be tortured by it. But life had never been fair to him. The druid turned his back to Malfurion as quick as he could, the flagcloak whipping in the air. He couldn't bring himself to face him, even with the mask on.

"…Tyrande wants me to help hunt Sylvanas. But… I'm tired of fighting. I'm just…" Once again did his head droop down in exhaustion. "So tired."

"…Then don't." Immediately did his heat jolt back up, confused by what he heard. He turned around and searching the archdruid. Even with the mask, Malfurion could see the perplexed expression he wore. And he couldn't help but smile. "To live a life of a feral beast without knowing the tranquility of the trees is no life at all."

"…But she wants me to. And Sylvanas needs to be stopped."

"Then do it. In the end, you need to learn to live for yourself and what you need to do." The druid lifted himself to his feet and stood tall. "I cannot tell you what to do. I am not your Shan'do anymore. Neither can Tyrande. You have heard my side, and you have heard hers. Now that choice resides in your hands."

"…But you don't think I should." Malfurion said nothing, the archdruid merely studying his former thero'shan in solace.

"Let me tell you something…" The archdruid closed his eyes to immerse himself in the recollection. The pristine and clear images of dreamcatchers and bright green foliage flooded back to him. "After the Sundering, the War of the Satyr, and the Legion's second return, I had returned to the Emerald Dream. Azeroth cried out in pain, the scars from the wars running deep. Nature needed to be healed. I spent a long time in solace away from my beloved to help our world recover. But not just our Azeroth. Me…" Jur quirked his head to the side curiously, unsure of what he was getting at. "War shakes all of us. Death, turmoil, betrayal. In those quiet times after the dust settles, we need to retreat. Allow ourselves to heal and breathe. That time in the Emerald Dream wasn't just to heal Azeroth. It was to heal _me_." Jur stood in silence, unsure of what to say. Or where to even proceed. Not since before his exile had he and Malfurion had a conversation this in-depth. Or even this long. "And – in time – I came back. To help the people I love and a world in need. But we wouldn't have had the strength to keep fighting if I didn't stop fighting to begin with." Slowly it started to make sense to the druid. Malfurion could visualize the gears turning in his head. Silence lingered between the both of them like a fog rolling in. the heat began to build upon Jur's neck as he grew more and more aware of the awkward silence between them. But the archdruid paid no heed do it, content to watch him figure it out.

"…Malfurion?"

"Yes?"

"…Th-thank you." Trying his best not to look back, the druid trudged on through the trees back onto his path to nowhere. Malfurion said nothing, merely smiling as he watched him go. He hadn't completely failed him, it seemed.

Like Tyrande, Jur felt a flurry of emotions for Malfurion. Anger at being exiled, jealousy of his power and his relationship with Tyrande, a longing to be accepted. And guilt. Guilt at these feelings. He had Sharah now. There was no need to live in their shadows anymore. To be haunted by ghosts he had created himself. He had lived a full and decorated life, even with his dedication to the factions going up in smoke. He had saved many lives and the world time and again. So why couldn't he let himself be?

_Dammit,_ he growled through his teeth. At another crossroads. Whose advice did he follow? Who did he wish to appease? Desperately did he wish to obtain validation from them both, but he knew that one path would offset the other. Just once did he wish to have his cake and eat it too.

Tyrande or Malfurion? Who to emulate? Who to follow? The question began to eat away at him the whole time he wandered back to Boralus, not even bothering to take his hearthstone. His internal debate just ate away at him too much to make use of magical convenience. He needed to torture himself by drawing this out as long as possible and overthinking every decision. A staple of his mental state. As he finally walked up to the front door of Sharah's house, he was utterly exhausted. And no doubt had calves of steel. The door slowly creaked open, and he began to sneak upstairs. One of his long floppy ears perked up at the creak of a bed. Then, nothing.

What luck! Silisea Moonbell hadn't been woken up. His job fighting Sylvanas had him away from Sharah's home a lot. In her absence, she had asked him to teach her only thero'shan. He did the best that he could. Exiles were forbidden from being shan'dos, but since he refused to teach her druidic magic, he should be fine. But he wasn't being the best teacher he should've been. The first few months had been going quite well. She was an astute learner, and he had a spark in him from a new experience. But eventually did he begin to wear down. The war between the factions, the lack of news on Sharah, and his brewing depression and anxiety effected his ability to provide her the knowledge and care she needed. He had become despondent, apathetic, and irritable. And it hurt her feelings. He chided himself mentally for his neglect. It wasn't fair to her. The young kaldorei had done nothing to deserve his coldness. And many times had she tried to reach out to him, offering a voice of reason in contrast with his stubborn anxiousness. Sharah had rubbed off on her quite a bit, it seemed.

He didn't speak much over the past couple of days after returning. Jur did what was expected of him: having her head books, train with weapons, and cook for her. Anything to keep his mind occupied off his uncertain future, his failing mental state, and Sharah's absence. Jur could easily see the hurt and loneliness she wore on her face. He just needed time. Time to figure himself out.

Still exhausted from his strenuous journey from Darkshore, he slept like a rock. Even the existential dilemma of Tyrande vs. Malfurion's approval didn't keep him up. But deep in his subconscious was it putting itself together.

A wanderer's restless spirit like Jur being trapped in his house, in his constrictive modern city far away from nature. Surrounded by war and the politics of the Alliance and Horde. While all he did was sit there and wait for Sharah to come home like an old maid waiting on her husband. And while Silisea waited patiently for him to aid her, the girl also suffering in silence like he did. What good was there to be stuck in some old house, exposed to the same experiences day in and day out while being choked by an oppressive atmosphere? What room was there to heal, to grow, to learn? When there was a whole world out there? Sure, he had seen it all and done nearly everything. But she hadn't.

Malfurion or Tyrande, Malfurion or Tyrande. The debate raged on in the recesses of his mind while he rested or was on auto-pilot. And eventually, something in him just clicked like it did before. No mental breakdown or fit of self-loathing rage. But rather, one simple eureka moment.

Not Malfurion or Tyrande.

Himself.

When the sliver of dawn drifted through his window, he got to work immediately. Sharah's bed and house would remain empty for a good long time. He knew what he had to do. Two bags surged with goods sat in front of the shelf, comprised of various cooking, first aid, and sewing materials. Books for study, a quill and a leather-bound blank book for his own writings, and other such goods. So caught up in preparing for the new day that he had left his noise get away from him.

The white short-haired kaldorei strode down the stairs while rubbing her sleepy eyes. A yawn like the coo of a dove left her as he tried to mumble questions.

"Sorry," Jur said softly, keeping his voice down to accommodate her. "Did I wake you?" As the girl grew more aware, she took notice of all the bags he had. And the fears of abandonment began to seep into her anxiety addled mind. Which were swiftly disbanded by a simple phrase and a lengthy explanation.

"Pack your things. We're leaving."


End file.
